Romney and Wharton good-humouredly made way for the young poet, who drew another stool modestly to the table. He was surprised at the easy air of familiarity that reigned; the way these men spoke to the King, and the way in which he accepted it. The three older Dutchmen, Mr. Prior noticed, Mr. Zulestein, M. Auverquerque, and my Lord Athlone, were the gravest of the company; he fancied they were there only out of loyalty to the King. Albemarle began talking to Wharton; they entered into a lively discussion of their separate racing-stables. The King leant back against the crimson cushions of his chair and turned his head so that he looked out of the window. Mr. Prior gazed at him; he seemed absorbed in thought. Mr. Prior knew that it was the face of a dying man and a heart-broken man; there was not a line of hope, of peace, or pride in that wan countenance; only the serenity of grief, the apathy of utter weariness—a man worn out, done for, awaiting scornfully an inglorious end. And he had done great things; he had been a light to encourage half the world—a name to rally nations. "He should have died outside Namur," thought Mr. Prior, and felt the tears smarting against his lids. He was not deceived by the boon companions, the drinking, the careless talk. He knew that the King cared for none of it, save as a means to hasten death; indeed, the little poet wondered, what had he to live for?—the Queen had gone, then Portland, then the army—his task was finished. It might have been an hour or more that the King lay back in his chair looking out on the slow-waving, full-leaved boughs, through which the changing sunlight moved; while the noisy talk of the others filled the shadowy spaces of the mellow, lofty room. Albemarle looked at him often and anxiously, but did not speak. At last William moved, rousing the sleeping dog. "I will go into the garden," he said, "before the sun leaves it. I would see those Turkey pears." Joost van Keppel rose instantly. The King took his arm and got up slowly, coughing with the effort of movement. Mr. Prior was shocked to see that he could not stand alone, but must support himself on Albemarle’s young strength. The others rose, save my Lord Pembroke, who had been asleep this half-hour across the table. The King saw him—an unpleasing spectacle of a stout gentleman with peruke awry and a coarsely red face, breathing heavily through his open mouth, with a wet stain of wine under his cheek and over his cravat. Mr. Prior expected a burst of anger from the King; but, instead, His Majesty, still holding on to my Lord Albemarle’s arm, broke into a long fit of laughter, in which the others joined for no reason at all save their vacant humours. The poet could not force even a smile. William’s unusual and immoderate amusement had a sad sound to him. Romney and Wharton went to drag Pembroke to his feet, and the King continued laughing. He was still laughing when an usher and a courier entered the room.